Rotten Log

Rotten log laying by the river.

Crusted veins

Some lifted high to the wind,

Others sunken as smashed tomatoes-

Riddle the upper crust.

Along those hot, sun-dried

Wind-whipped

Paths

Termites invade.

Chewing rapidly by way of incisors –

The roads more pronounced, now.

As if by magic,

The elements wrestle the log with a flourishing conviction.

Smoothing down the dissonance

Flattening and sealing the disparities

But-

The termites won’t stand for it.

Tunnels now, submerged under creamy scabs

Still holding the bitter tang

Of the first violent whips

That left those indentations

To start with.

Passerby see the

Wobbling and the chalky whiteness,

Continuous like time,

Blithely unaware….

Copper remnants infiltrate, still.

Will they ever leave?

Even in death,

The termites remain,

Locked now by sealed wood.

The shellacked corpses

back-down, legs-up, twisted horribly,

Stench settling

Permanently engrained in each filthy crevice.

Chop it to pieces!

Break it into a million shards

Glittering murky soil

Until dust obscures the sky

And sawdust fills the lungs.

One with patience rids the timber

Of each thumb-tack carcass

(Count infinite grains of sand.)

Holey still,

A naked shell-

The odor seems to dissipate.

A certain life seems rooted inside

When the log is put back together.